Maybe
by T3RRiB3AR
Summary: "He's only teasing you because he likes you, sweetheart." Your typical fan-made love story. Begins with Butch and the Lone Wanderer's bully/victim dynamic, progresses from childhood to adulthood. Explores love/hate relationships. Possible sexual themes, violent themes, maybe even character death. If I get enough people interested, I won't kill anyone important off.
1. Chapter 1

It's not fair.

"Just who were you trying to impress? Your friends? Classmates?"

It's not fair.

"Christ, I expected this behavior when you were three or four but now you're in the double digits."

It's _not fair!_

"You can't go around punching people just because they upset you, that's not how the world works."

"He started it!" The little girl's face was blistering red with rage by the time she finally piped up and talked back. "You don't know! You weren't there!" She felt helpless as her father grilled her with questions and scolded her. There's nothing she can do or say to convince him, and this just upsets her more. She balls up her hands and tightens her arms, hugging herself with her arms crossed over her chest.

The little girl wanted to cry, but after being called a crybaby all her life, she forced herself to suck it up.

"I don't care who started it," her father began, "You're old enough now to know that hitting someone is wrong. That's not how problems are solved." James went on, as if he understood the nature of man. The hardest part about being a father is the lessons taught. There is no right way to parent a child, just a lot of wrong ways. It's times like these that he truly misses Catherine. Somehow, he believes that she'd know the right thing to say to make everything better.

Staring at the cross little child, the last bit of Catherine he had, he finds himself squinting. The staring makes _Zoey_ squeamish. It's at this particular moment he can see a glimpse of her... Catherine did the same thing with her eyebrows that Zoey's doing now. Even the little crease between the two hairlines is the same.

Good God, now he feels bad.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it, sweetheart." James extends his hand and gently smooths the quirky-kinky mess of fiery hair, as if it could be tamed. The waves are awkward and seem to be a source of self-consciousness for her. The unkempt hair will be the bane of her existence for years to come. "He was probably just pining for your attention." Then he set off the little firecracker.

"He was _not!_ " She pushed the big hand away, her cheeks glowing with ager again. "He sat behind me just so he could pull my hair and make me cry!" James knew how serious it this matter was to Zoey, but truly he couldn't maintain the stern face. His lips twisted and then his grin broke out, a wide smile coming out despite his attempts to hide it.

"Hahaha," his laughter made her face contort and her eyes well up with hot water. "No, sweetheart, I'm sorry." He tried to get it under control, but truthfully he found the situation adorable. "Butch likes you, very much. He just doesn't know how to show it, so he picks on you." This didn't give his little ray of sunshine any comfort. She was about to lose her mind over the very suggestion.

"GROSS!" She squirmed and carefully climbed down off the stool that James set her on for the lectures. "No! No, he hates me! And I hate him!" Well, Zoey had her mind made up. Maybe there's little he can do to convince her otherwise, but then again he isn't sure he wants to change her mind. Butch DeLoria _is_ a troublemaker who comes from a bad family background. Hell, Ms. DeLoria was very adamant about getting a "tour" of James facilities when he arrived here to practice as a doctor. That woman is a mess and a lush. No doubt Butch will grow up to be the same, poor kid.

"I wish he'd die!" Suddenly James snapped to attention and frowned. Zoey immediately stop after she caught the disapproval in her father's eyes, suddenly feeling her skin grow hot with embarrassment and shame. Funny how a simple look from someone can have that effect. "Nnh, no. I'm... I'm sorry." She feared getting a spanking, so she quickly shaped up and started wiping her eyes. It's been years since she got bent over a knee, but she'll never forget that _oh no_ feeling of dread at the simple mention or thought of such punishment.

When her father got down on a knee and held on to Zoey's shoulders, she sucked the snot back into her nose and went tense. She wasn't going to receive any punishment, but James was really trying to fix this so he wouldn't get threatened by the Overseer again.

"Please, darling... Don't _ever_ hit him, or anyone, ever again." The look he gave her tugged on her little heartstrings. "You have to promise me you'll _never, ever_ do something like that ever again. You're going to be around these people for the rest of your natural born life," God, he hopes so, "and you're only going to make it harder for yourself if you hurt someone." Maybe she wouldn't understand, but if she can keep the promise, she'll realize the importance of it when she's older.

"Okay, dad..." After she muttered that, her eyes looked away to the left. For some reason, this made James feel ill, and so he tried to meet her gaze.

"You promise?" The girl almost squirmed as she looked him in the eyes and finally surrendered.

"I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

"... You are approached by a frenzied Vault scientist, who yells, "I'm going to put my quantum harmonizer in your photonic resnoation chamber!" What's your response?"

Well, the answer is obvious. _Punch him in the face._

"While working as an intern in the Clinic, a patient with a strange infection on his foot stumbles through the door. The infection is spreading at an alarming rate, but the doctor has stepped out for a while. What do you do?"

Uhh... Fuck, this is a hard one. A long breath came out and the pencil met the paper again... _Punch him in the face._ That'll do.

"You discover a young boy lost in the lower levels of the Vault. He's hungry and frightened, but also appears to be in possession of stolen property. What do you do?"

Easy! _Laugh at him for crying and take the goods for myself._

"Congratulations! You made one of the Vault 101 baseball teams! Which position do you prefer?"

 _Pitcher._

"Your grandmother invites you to tea, but you're surprised when she gives you a pistol and orders you to kill another Vault resident. What do you do?"

What? Never met grandma. A hum comes, and the eraser is slowly gnawed on by pearly whites. Um... _Steal the liquor from her cabinet and tell her off._

"Old Mr. Abernathy has locked himself in his quarters again, and you've been ordered to get him out. How do you proceed?"

 _Forget him._

"Oh, no! You've been exposed to radiation, and a mutated hand has grown out of your stomach! What's the best course of treatment?"

This is such a stupid test... _Use it to hold a mirror while I fix my hair._ Suddenly a loud, obnoxious guffaw came out.

"A fellow Vault 101 resident is in possession of a Grognak the Barbarian comic book, issue number 1. You want it. What's the best way to obtain it?"

 _Beat them up until they hand it over._

"You decide it would be fun to play a prank on your father. You enter his private restroom when no one is looking and..."

 _Replace his aftershave with mouthwash._

"Who is indisputably the most important person in Vault 101: He who shelters us from the harshness of the atomic wasteland, and to whom we owe everything we have, including our lives?"

 _TUNNEL SNAKES RULE!_

Butch couldn't take this test seriously, there's not an ounce of him that really cares about what he does for the rest of his life. Though he only partly believes his own lies. He doesn't know better, and truly? A sixteen year old should never be forced to make life changing decisions, or take a test that's results will make him hate every day of his life. 

A confident smirk came over him as he came to his feet and sauntered towards the desk. He bumped into Amata on her way towards the door, those completing the test being allowed to leave class for the rest of the day. Glancing over his shoulder and looking back, he connected eyes with Zoey just as she was giving him the stink-eye. The day isn't over until she crinkles her brows and gives him that awful sneer.

"Yo, teach. I'm done!" The paper was passed over on the desk and Butch promptly stuck his hands into his leather pockets.

"Ahh, Butch. Can I admit that I've been waiting for this day for a long, _long_ time? Allow me to savor the moment." Mr. Brotch pinched the paper between his fingers and leaned back in his chair, glancing downward over the words. He rolled his eyes, and tried to apply the answers to the best of his abilities. "Now then, let's see... Hm... Really? Interesting. You've surprised me, Butch. I didn't think you had it in you. Hairdresser! Who would've thunk it?" Oh, oh the humiliation burns.

"You're so full of it, that's not true!" He spat out before turning on his heels and storming out. The second he was out he settled against the wall, slumping against it and scowling. He waited patiently for his boys, his neck flushed with a bit of frustration. Paul was the first one out after Butch.

"What did you get?" The Butch-man asked, though he tried not to seem too curious.

"Engineering," he said with a wide grin, "Not so bad, huh?" And then a huff came out of Butch. One of his boys are going to be working as an engineer while Butch will be cutting hair. This threatens the Tunnel Snakes gang... Damn.

"Where's Wally?" Butch yanked the lapel of his jacket, gruffing himself up in attempt to reclaim some sense of masculinity.

"Saw him get up as I was leaving. So hairdresser, huh?" At the very mention of it, Butch came off the wall and flinched at Paul, making the other almost regret his words.

"Not one word, Hannon." All of Butch's empty gestures are usually just that, empty gestures. There have been very few times he had to assert himself among the men his age, and thankfully no one has had to challenge him lately because the Overseer wasn't tolerating any violent gestures anymore...

… and it's harder to control his impulses now that the habits are second nature.

He leans back and brings a hand up, swiping his fingers through the slightly greasy hair... greasy because of the product. Hairdresser, of all things.

Mack came around and granted both a look of disinterest.

"And what did you score on the test?" Paul asked, and Wally's eyes couldn't roll any harder. "Who cares? Let's go for-"

"Let's go for lunch already." Butch was getting wise to his competition for leader, and he felt threatened by his crew more than he would like to admit, but didn't have the perception to recognize his own anxieties, insecurities, fears.

Being a dick usually helps with those things.

"So Suzie keeps bringing up some kind of dance-thing. Apparently Beatrice has been putting ideas in her head." Wally doesn't really know much of anything about the dance event. Several years back, when there were many more occupants in the Vault, and more than one classroom, the young students were allowed to use the Atrium for a dance.

"If Suzie gets her way, and the Overseer gives it the okay, they're going to make it a big 'thing'. She said she already has a guy in mind that she wants to ask." This caught the other two boys by surprise, but neither showed it. Butch deadpanned as he walked in to the cafeteria, his mind slowly pulling the pieces together.

"Who do you think she's pining for?" Paul asked while Butch claimed a booth seat, reclining back. He was stoic, for the most part. He wanted to form his own opinion, but he didn't want to voice it if it earned him funny looks.

"Hell if I know, she's weird. Probably would go for Freddie the Freak." Wally laughed, finding himself amusing. "Not that I'd ever go, but if you had to go..."

Paul and Butch pondered the idea, recalling the options they had. Suzie wouldn't want a Tunnel Snake, and Wally would kick the ass of the moron who was dumb enough to slow dance with his sister. The two boys exchanged looks. Only one available babe in the Vault available and willing and that's...

"Christine Kendall." Paul said it before Butch could think of her. He was distracted by other favorable figures of the feminine persuasion. "I hear she puts out..." The three of them startled chuckling.

"I wouldn't go to a stupid dance..." Butch nibbles on his bottom lip, biting it while looking between his peers. "... but if I had to pick, Beatrice." He busted out into a grin while the others laughed.

"What the fuck, man? That old hag?" Wally didn't see the appeal in a hot MILF, but that's alright. He didn't need to understand. "I think I'd go for Amata, or maybe her friend." Wally tucked his elbows over the booth's back, slumping with a grin despite the sudden knee-jerk reaction from the 'leader' of the Tunnel Snakes.

"No." He'd slammed his palms on the table. "No fucking way, man." Paul joined in, backing up his boss's voice before Butch expressed his disapproval. "Fuck no, I'll kick your ass first. Nosebleed? Princess? You think you'll get to get chummy with those nerds and think everything will be okay in the gang? No. Screw that noise!" While Butch was flushed with his irrational hatred, Wally gave away a passive shrug.

"It was an 'if' question. Even if I was going to some stupid dance, what do you care?" Ohh, Wally Mack knew just what to say... Butch leaned forward over the table, a brilliant fighting tactic that he still uses. Arms down, face presented.

"Looks like we're doomed to be like our dads." Zoey admitted with some reluctance, almost sounding disappointed.

"That's not the worst thing in the world, right? I mean, think about it. How hard could it be working as a doctor in the Vault? Besides the occasional work-related accident, there's not too many people that will demand your attention." Always with the rational thinking, but there's one mistake she's overlooking.

"And I'm sure you'll pick up the mantle as the next Overseer, and you'll be blessed with the God-awful task of being a tool."

The two girls exchanged looks, Amata's face seeming a bit more hardened despite her friend's playful attempt at teasing her. They've discussed this before, so there's no point in bringing it up again. If, for some reason, her father passed the torch to her, Amata would not abuse her power to act like a complete ass. Neither had any idea how difficult and demanding it is to be the one in charge of this operation, and neither cared to put any thought into it.

They don't need to worry, not for a few more years at least.

"I don't want to be a doctor, but I don't know what other options there are-..." Zoey trailed off, eyes darting towards the window as two security officers darted by. The two girls had settled in the clinic after leaving their G.O.A.T. exam, as they usually hang out with Jonas and James after class. Seeing the security guards run by piqued her curiosity and thus Zoey had to get up and follow. Why? Because she's a troublesome girl who puts her nose in places she shouldn't.

"Where are you going?"

Zoey didn't answer, just hushed her friend while trying to quietly follow the men to the cafeteria. By the time she actually turned the last corner she heard a variety of colorful swears, just polluting the air before they were promptly silenced. Why was she surprised by the view?

" _Fuck_ you, man! You're not calling the shots, I run this place!"

"Yeah? You think so? Say that to my-ugh!" The guards had torn Butch and Wally away from one another. In order to silence them, the guards cracked their batons over the boy's head. Both boys immediately became disoriented, and while Wally knew better to struggle, Butch instinctively writhed and kicked around, swinging an arm blindly.

"I'll get you, you son of a bitch!" Butch seemed livid, and because of his uppity act, he suddenly met the floor.

This would've pleased Zoey, if the guard didn't begin beating the shit out of the troubled teen.

"Holy shit..." She whispered just as Amata caught up and observed the same scene.

The nightstick kept coming down on the boy, every impact resounding from the hollowness from Butch's chest cavity. He started jerking, recoiling, curling up on the ground while the guard stood over the boy, swinging it down against him. Paul was in the doorframe of the cafeteria, neither fleeing or attacking. He just stood there, watching, almost too frightened to do anything else. Probably best he doesn't try to intervene. The guards have a zero-tolerance policy, and they're very strict about it.

The guard kept going until his beating arm got tired, standing upright to glare down at the pulp that remained. He was panting hard over Butch, his comrade seemed unimpressed but Wally looked just as pale as Paul. A few other Vault occupants were watching, lured out of their holes by the sound of a fight.

"Shows over. Go back to your quarters," the guard would command, and Amata suddenly grabbed and pulled the redhead from the scene, forcing Zoey back. 

Holy shit.

This is probably just an overreaction. There's no reason why she should actually be shocked or feel sympathy for that rolling greaseball. It's Butch, and he deserves everything that happens to him. There's no excuse for destructive behavior, and they're old enough now where if they're tussling, they need to be dealt with.

"… but holy shit, he didn't hold back," Zoey uttered as she sat across from her old man while he tapped away tirelessly on his computer. Filling out a report, no doubt. Or maybe updating a file, a log entry. She doesn't particularly care about what he's doing on the terminal, more distracted with her own thoughts.

"Language." One warning was enough. A look of frustration came over her, peering above the terminal in attempt to catch his eyes with her own. He was getting irritated, better keep a clean mouth.

"... They just kept going." Then she leaned back, looking towards the window to look outside of his office. They shared a long silence, the tapping of her father's fingertips clacking on the keys of the computer. She was so distracted, lost in thought over the recent events. Authority brutality. It sounded like something she read in the books focused around distopia, like 1984. Although, that was more extreme. The guards are only trying to protect everyone, not control them.

"Dad? They were right to do that, weren't they?" She felt a little sick questioning it. "What they did was the right thing? Beating him up?" The clacking stopped and he stared at the screen in serious thought. His gears are turning, though there's no immediate response. He's trying to work and parent at the same time.

"Wally's dad is a guard... You don't think they've been extra hard on Butch because he was fighting with Wally, right? I mean, Butch probably deserved it on account of how much of an idiot he is." The man behind the desk straightened up and looked towards her, easily hiding his concern for the questioning that his daughter gave. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and tried to find the right thing to say. It's not easy, on account that he wasn't there, doesn't know the details.

"Butch is..." James trailed off, finding it impossible to speak of the matter. He begins scritching his beard, trying to unload the events of today and focus critical thinking on the scenario. "Butch..." This is oddly uncomfortable.

"He's a jackass."

"Hey," James glared at the young lady, trying to show that he means business. "You're a young lady, you shouldn't be talking like that. That's the last time I'm going to warn you." Her reluctance showed, but at least she'd comply. He heaved a sigh and looked towards the bobblehead that stared back at him from the surface of his desk.

"Honey, sweetie..." He moved his chair, shifting so that he could look at her directly without the computer obscuring his vision. "Butch is a troubled boy, he doesn't think of what he's doing, he isn't someone who thinks about consequences. The only harm he can do to anyone is himself... Maybe he deserved a heavy hand, but I don't condone severe beatings." He has to see it for himself to decide whether or not it really is as bad as he thinks. "You have to keep in mind, he never had a father to look up to. He doesn't know discipline, he just knows how to act out."

"Just has a lush for a mom." The unattractive, snide comment made his eyes roll.

"Alcohol is a depressant, and she's heavily dependent on it at this point in her life. Usually, when people experience tragedy or trauma, they self-medicate with vices to cope. My guess is she's depressed because she lost her husband, and raising a child by yourself isn't a stroll in the park... You might not really understand it all now, but in time it might make sense." Then he shifted, stood up from the chair, heading towards the door.

"As far as guard brutality, I don't know what to tell you. For now, try not to read too much into it. Come on, let's close up and go home." Zoey followed behind, walking through the threshold. Just as they were walking through the clinic, a figure passed by the window and then met the pair just before they left the doorway. A guard had Butch and Wally plucked by the back of their necks like kittens. A heavy, loud groan left the short redhead that followed behind James—quieting down as she saw the sorry state they were in.

They both had shiners, Wally looked better than Butch did. Butch, with his limp, his broken hand, busted lip. Wally had a shallow cut along his face, superficial, probably won't even scar. Vault suit was torn, like it'd been cut. The broken nose on his pale face seemed really nasty, though. If he was hurt just as bad as Butch, he was hiding it well.

"Doctor, two patients for you before you close for the night."

Looking between the two boys, James carried a subtle look of surprise. His jaw clenched and unclenched before delivering a nod to the guard, and the two boys were promptly escorted inside, shoved towards a cold metal operating table, and abandoned by the guard. James didn't grant his daughter any kind of expression, just solemnly rubbed the back of his neck as he walked back in.

Both boys were oddly silence, neither looked up from the floor, they seemed intent on ignoring the gravity of the situation. The two boys shifted awkwardly until James cleared his throat, demanding their attention.

"Both of you, take a seat." Assumedly on the table, but as soon as Wally hopped up, Butch turned and found a regular chair. Both boys remained absolutely quiet, wholly intent on remaining 'strong but silent' despite looking like sorry sacks of bruised meat. Zoey folded her arms, smirked, and leaned back to take a long gander at her sad, sad rival. Butch felt it. He felt that stare, so cold it almost felt hot, if that was actually possible. He sneered, but didn't say a word for fear of her old man.

"Could you please take off your jacket, Wally?"

"Gladly." He shrugged the leather off and promptly slammed the jacket down, sitting up straight and looking about as macho as he could. There's a lot of gritting of teeth, a lot of tension between the two, but when isn't there?

"Nice lip... Wait, are you missing a tooth?" Zoey asked the greaseball stewing in the chair—he suddenly touched over his teeth, feeling over them before looking relieved. She scared him for a second.

"Zoey, _please_ don't irritate my patients." Her father sounded genuinely frustrated with her behavior, but she minds fairly well. Usually. She's only testing her luck because she knows Butch isn't dumb enough to tease and harass her in front of her old man.

"The sooner we deal with them, the sooner we can go home," he casually explained while dressing up Wally's arm, a shallow gash along his arm but a gash nonetheless. Better to cover it and keep it from getting infected. The livelihood of the Vault relies on James mind and hands.

"Yeah, fine. Butch, take off the jacket." He fixed his brows together, looking uncomfortable at the sound of Zoey's request. He squirmed in his chair and she swore she saw a vein beginning to pop in his neck. A terrible look was building in Zoey's evil eyes. He's reluctant to pull the the jacket off, exchanging glares with his 'friend' on the operating table. Then he shifted slightly as the redhead approached, pulling up a chair to join Butch with a first aide kit.

"The upper part of the Vault suit, take that off."

The zipper was pulled, the jump suit folded at the hip down, white shirt still on. She checked over him, searched for any cuts. It would seem that Wally got all the cuts, no doubt from Butch's 'toothpick'. There were no obvious wounds on his arms so she went down to his hands, turning them over to inspect his palms, his knuckles.

"What was this all about?" she asked, although she should know better than to expect a real answer from him.

"Nothing." There was no further explanation, he was fully and completely intent on keeping silent. She tilts her head, squinting at the odd formation under his collar. A dark color, one that catches her off guard.

"Nothing, huh?" She reached forward, taking hold of his collar to peek down. Butch shoved her hand away, leaning back and glaring towards some other point of interest in the clinic to avoid eye contact. She plucked something from the kit, a cotton swap, beginning to run over the bloody knuckles, swiping it along and trying to cleanse the skin of blood. She leaned down, squinting a little. It takes a moment, but she finally leans back and turns towards her father.

"Dislocated at a few joints along some of the fingers." James seemed almost indifferent to Zoey's report.

"By all means, reset them." Butch glanced between the doctor and his daughter, seemingly worried for himself, his fingers. Zoey looked towards the greaseball, looking towards him with what seemed to be some kind of sadistic cruelty, a lustful stare of pure hatred. He fixed himself, trying to seem entirely indifferent despite that sinking feeling deep within his stomach.

What he didn't know is that it could be relatively painless, but she'd love nothing more than to make it hurt for him. He watched, and suddenly his index was back in place. It barely made much of a sound, she just bent it accordingly, it all went together like a wave of flesh collapsing into it's self. It didn't really hurt at all, and then she went to the middle finger, then the pinky.

"How did you get so many broken fingers?" There was no answer to her question, he was just quiet as she switched to the other hand. No answer, but she seemed very intent on talking. Swiping the knuckles and all with her cotton soaked in alcohol to disinfect him, suffice to say there was nothing painful about her treatment except for the sting from the chemical. James made short work of Wally, and soon the kid was slipping his jacket on, hopping onto his feet and walked out.

"Don't get into any trouble," James requested as the boy walked, apparently still intent on holding that strong but silent routine.

The doctor exhaled, irritated by the display of machoism between two young boys who were intent on fighting for the alpha position. Something that no doubt dominates society, regardless of whether or not it's in the Wasteland or in a 'pure' Vault. James removed his lab coat and looked towards the pair that were still using the first aide kit.

"Are you feeling alright? No serious bruising? Possible fractures?"

"I don't see any," Zoey clarified as she leaned away from the black and blue greaseball.

"I'm fine," he muttered while the redhead applied a little Bacitracin to the minor abrasion on his swollen cheekbone.

"Is there any reason why you two were scrapping in the cafeteria? Can't imagine you fighting over steak." Then a snort was heard from Zoey, "Oh, but he'd take a tumble for a sweetroll..." She leaned back and closed the first aide kit, collecting the used cotton balls and tossing them into a waste bin.

"I don't know..." the boy muttered, scratching his chin without thought.

"Butch," James began, without intent to lecture, but rather with intent to try and talk a little bit of sense. "I think you'd better lay off the bruising for a while. The more fight, the more you risk the Overseer's wrath."

"Yeah, what do you know?" Butch looked for his jacket, plucked it off the floor, and began pushing his arms into the sleeves.

"Zoey, why don't I meet you at home? I'll put away the first aide kit." She didn't argue, she got up and left without lingering behind to stay. However, when Butch stood, James gently put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit back down. I'm going to administer a stimpack."

"What? Why?"

"Because I know you got the worst of the Overseer's wrath. You were limping when you walked in." Tossing his white lab coat on the operating table, he walked over towards a drawer, and he sifting through it for a syringe. "You're still a minor, but the older you get the harder they'll be on you." He flicked the needle while pressing, taking the air out of it before approaching the boy. "Give me an arm and you can go on your way."

"You don't understand..." As usually, no one really 'gets' Butch, but he's come to terms with that at least. "You're just like him." He'd mutter as he pulled an arm out and offered it up.

"Am I?" The doctor asked as he tied a tourniquet above the bicep. "Make a fist, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, you're just like that old bastard. You don't get it."

"And what don't I get?" He began searching for a vein, pressing with a few fingers before swiping over with an alcohol wipe.

"You don't know what it's like, having to deal with people bossing you around. Judging you, making fun of you, lying to you... ow." He flinched, the needle sinking in deep and finding the big fat vein under the skin.

"I was your age once. Believe it or not, everyone was." He applied pressure and then withdrew the needle. "Not everyone's out to be your enemy, Butch. Believe it or not, some of us simply don't have anything to prove to ourselves." He pulled his attention away, disposing of the needle and empty syringe with it.

"Don't know what noise you're spewin' old man."

"Well you're clearly struggling with your own inadequacies." Then just as Butch put his jacket on he shot up to his feet and pushed his chest out, shoulders raised.

"You're so full of it!"

"Calm down, I'm not here to lecture you. You can go home now. You'll feel better in the morning." Then he approached the door, looking towards the macho-boy who was still standing in the clinic. "I won't make you go home and obey curfew, but please don't doddle in my clinic. Last thing I want is to have the Overseer crack down on my place of work because you wanted to poke around."

Butch wasn't quick to follow, but he did follow James out and walked home. It was awkward going home, though, on account of the fact that they lived very close to one another. Only thing seperating their apartments are the restrooms. A hand reached down, clutching his elbow pit that was bruised by the needle from earlier.

"Don't get into any trouble, Butch. You have your mother to think about." As James takes a turn to enter his apartment, Butch stays, lingering. Yeah, no doubt Mrs. DeLoria was worried sick about her little Butch. So sick that she's probably making white Russians right now. If he goes home, she'll probably scream and holler, no doubt she'll tell him to make her a drink and then tell him to go to bed and not cause her anymore problems.

Wonder what Zoey has to put up with on a daily basis.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note,** I had some trouble fixing up the last few chapters. I thought I put in a line break, but when I posted the last chapter, it didn't show up. I tried editing the document, re-uploading it, and saw no change. I tried editing it on the website's editor, but still the line breaks didn't appear. I even tried just typing "break" in brackets so my readers will be able to differentiate the end and beginning of a scene. No such luck. Anyway, hopefully I won't have this problem again. Please leave me a review, let me know if my transitions are okay and how you feel about me switching between general point of views, to character-specific point of views. I'd like to know if it reads awkwardly or if I should keep doing it the way I've been doing. Also, terribly sorry this one is shorter than the ones previously, but writing these days is a lot like pulling teeth. Thank you for reading.

 **Break.**

Wouldn't it be a spectacle if someone smashed the Vault door open and saved everyone? Admittedly, she knew there was no way a super-human could ever exist, but when Mr. Brotch's lecture became too dull, she day dreamed. They'd wear some big symbol on their chest and deflect lasers and bullets, their flesh would be as firm as steel and their will indomitable. They'd fly in at just the right time and save everyone from seemingly inevitable doom.

Everyone she cares about would be moved somewhere liberating, where they didn't have to be restricted by cold walls and the glares of men wearing security garb.

" _Please_ pay attention." There's a look of surprise that comes over Zoey. Her eyes lift from the paper and meet with Mr. Brotch who had caught her in the middle of her silly fantasy. He sets a piece of chalk down and folds his arms, lifting his brows to capitalize on the disapproval in his stare. One glance at the equation on the bored and she gives a sigh in return. He taps on the board with a knuckle in a gesture, trying to encourage an answer out of her. Eyes drop down to her paper and she quickly works out the equation next to her crude attempt at sketching Grognak the Barbarian.

"Uh, the x is negative sixteen," she finally said and glanced up for his approval.

"How did you get to that answer?"

"I ignored the negative symbol in the parenthesis... thirty-five minus nineteen is sixteen, but since thirty-five was the larger number, I tagged it with the minus sign."

"Mm, very good. Any questions? Everyone understands how she got that? Great. Now let's move on to the next section. Everyone turn their page to..." Then his voice began fading out, turning to a series of distant blobs of background noise. Her eyes drifted away from the board and glanced towards the paper in front of her. She turned the page, and began drawing something. She wasn't quite sure what, just something. The more she softly dragged the lead on the paper, the more it became obvious. Broad shoulders, firm chest, thick arms.

The world became fantasy once again and she tried to imagine a face that was appropriate for her imaginary hero, her savior. She holds her breath as she tries to draw a jawline, but it doesn't seem quite right the first time... or the second, or third, or fourth. Eventually the paper is ruined thanks to the pink dye in the pencil's eraser, and it kills her. It _kills_ her because it was actually looking decent. 

Mr. Brotch is fully aware that one of his students wasn't paying attention, but he tolerates this because Zoey didn't really need any coaching, any lessons or one on one attention. She sailed through all the generals. There's room for improvement, but this is the Vault. What good will come of being a student who has all A's across the board? Sure, James could be extra proud of his daughter, but she won't be given any "college scholarships" on account of the fact that... this is it. This is all there ever will be.

So while little Red scribbles away to pass the time, Mr. Brotch will devote his attention and efforts to helping the ones that _do_ need help.

"Butch," he starts, sounding as dry as ever as he tries not to leer at the young man who was caught passing notes. For a brief moment, there's a _deer in the headlights_ look that occupies the young face, and then it's gone as he leans back, relaxing in his chair. "Butch, can you figure out the equation on the board?"

"What?" It's the very same equation Zoey solved. Zoey, who only perked up at the name of her rival, stopped her sketching and looked towards him, devoid of any immediate expression. Butch looks from the teacher to the board and the small gears in his little brain are seen turning slowly. For a moment, she can almost feel the panic beating of his black little heart.

"The equation, Butch..."

"It's uhh... That's..." If he was listening when Zoey explained it, he could just repeat her like an annoying parrot. Sadly, he just mumbles, "Four."

"Four," Mr. Brotch repeats, and Butch nods.

"Yeah, four! You know, two and two?" His friends muffle their chuckles as Butch flips from bully to class clown. " _Four._ Half of eight, quarter of ten!"

"One quarter of ten isn't-..." Brotch quiets, feeling a wave of frustration come and go. His goons shift in their seats, all his boys looking towards Butch with a small glance of anticipation. Before the boy could give any more wit, Mr. Brotch intercepted.

"Butch DeLoria, I want you to stick around after class."

" _What?!_ " He suddenly looked alarmed, and from the opposite side of the room, Zoey was smirking with such boiling pleasure.

"Zoey, you too."

" _What?!_ " She flipped her eyes towards Brotch and felt a mix of shock and rage. "Why?! What did _I_ do!?" Between her brows came a wrinkle as she tried not to scowl at him.

"We'll talk more after class. Moving on, the variable is-" Just when he turned, a wadded up paper ball was thrown at the back of his head. He turned, distributing a glare to an equally enraged little redhead. A steady glare was held, and as if her wrath wasn't enough, he could see Butch at the further end of the room giving him the same exact look. "... Get over it, kids."

 **Break.**

" _Ugggh my God._ " She slumps in her chair, frustrated as she's forced to watch her peers get up and walk out without her. Butch sits with his arms crossed, sinking down, sitting low in the chair with the look of death in his eyes as his 'gang' gathers outside. They are acutely aware of one another, but neither wants to acknowledge the other, believing that if they avoided eye contact long enough, the other would disappear from existence.

"Mr. Brotch, _please!_ " Zoey nearly begs as she watches her teacher walk towards Butch's desk with a few papers in hand. He sets down worksheets for the boy, and Butch started to squirm.

"What is this?" The young man asked, pulling the worksheet up with a look of frustration building up in him.

"Your grades are slipping, Butch. If you want to keep passing, you're going to do these worksheets-"

"Pff, the hell I am!"

"-and Zoey is going to help you."

" _ **What!?**_ " They both shouted, as if synchronized together. They both began raising their voice, talking over one another to explain to Brotch how neither of them wanted anything to do with one another. They tried not to swear, Brotch having some kind of power over them in that respect. Zoey stood up and shouted over Butch's loud griping, "I'm _not_ going to be saddled up with a boneheaded barbarian just so he can _use_ me to get by!"

"Hey! I don't need you! I don't need anybody!"

"Alright! That's enough from both of you. No one's leaving until Butch passes each sheet with a score of seventy-five percent or above."

… There's no way Butch can pass this on his own. Butch hasn't scored above forty since he was ten years old. If Mr. Brotch wasn't so well respected among the youths, the two kids in the classroom wouldn't be sitting in their seats. They would've gotten up and left, flipped a few desks on their way out. There are so many unsavory things that Zoey and Butch want to say, and though they aren't being physically restrained, they feel like they are unable to move from their seats, trapped in the room by invisible straps that had been set in place long before they realized they were buckled in. 

Butch stares down at the papers, feeling his rage settle down, soon gone completely only to be replaced with anxiety. A small cloud was forming over his head, a hot little disgusting cloud that can only be described as embarrassment. The early stages of shame. He looks towards Brotch, who had settled down at his desk, looking over papers, assignments given to him by those who valued the grade system. None of which had Butch's name on them.

"You'd get out sooner if the two of you worked together..." The idea stirred up... fear, in both students. Reluctance from Zoey, but fear because she didn't believe this would bode well for her later. Fear from Butch because, well... he's not quite sure why he's scared of the idea.

Neither budge, and after about ten minutes, Butch starts looking over the numbers, considering effort for a moment. None of it makes sense, he should've been writing notes instead of exchanging jokes and crude talk between his boys. He clears his throat and passes a glance towards Zoey, recognizing her as a fellow slacker when he realizes she's drawing instead of working on homework or assignments. They sat at a fair distance of one another, courtesy of the teacher who realized the two can't be in the same row without one or the other causing trouble for the opposing rival.

Butch fidgeted, looked towards his Pipboy. Thirty more minutes passed. Was Brotch really going to keep them here for an hour? How long could they keep them in this room? He paled at the sheet, realizing that he was stuck. He didn't understand what x meant, or why there were letters in math. He was so distracted that he didn't hear Zoey's heel tapping impatiently on the floor, bored stiff with a numb ass.

Butch would never ask for help, at least not help figuring out math. So, Zoey caved.

"I _never_ want you to say _anything_ about this," she said as she stood up and grabbed her chair, picking it up one-handed with a notebook under her free arm. She dropped it next to Butch's desk, sat down and didn't even look towards her rival for compliance.

"Which one are you on?"

He points, doesn't speak.

"After _all_ this time, you haven't even made it to five?"

"Shut up."

"You didn't even get one or two right."

" _Shut up,_ " he sounded more threatening this time, and despite his intimidation, she scooted closer and leaned towards him, pointing at number one.

"Do you remember a few years ago when they gave us math problems where we had to fill in the blank?"

"Yeah, that was easy."

"Pretend the x in this one is just a blank." She looked at him, and saw the lightbulb above his head flicker before turning on. A few minutes passed, and he completed one page. It was set aside, and he started on the next one.

"Now we're doing y?"

"Yeah, it's not the different."

"Why don't you just do the work for me?"

"Do I look like your bitch?"

" **Hey.** " Brotch didn't need to say more before Zoey immediately apologized, flushing slightly as she began explaining it to him, and then walked him through the first problem, then the second problem, and then let him work from the third and onward. Butch, didn't really need her help. He was just too insecure, he didn't apply himself. There's something else she began to realize the longer they tolerated one another, but at the moment she's not quite sure of her suspicions.

Butch squirmed a little when she came a little too close. He could smell something coming off of her, but he wasn't too sure what. Maybe cream, or flowers... The longer he sat there, the more he tried to figure out what that smell was. It's definitely not coming from him.

"Okay, one more sheet and we can leave. Hurry up."

"The fuck is this?!" He asked, thrown off by the minus sign being in front of a number.

" **Last warning.** "

The two looked towards Brotch, and Butch murmurs out a quiet little apology before putting his attention back on his paper. Zoey explained, and let him figure out the process, only having to correct him once. The whole time he was distracted, occasionally stopping, almost figuring out what the smell was before it slipped his mind completely. Now he was fidgeting because he couldn't identify that stench, annoyed over it more than he was annoyed about the numbers. 

Time forgotten, he finished the last page and Zoey was already pulling her chair towards her designated desk. For some reason, Butch still felt anxiety, still felt restless in his seat. He doesn't understand why...

"Here, teach," Butch muttered as he got up and handed over the papers.

"You can go now," he said, gesturing to the door.

"You're not going to grade'm right now?"

"Zoey helped you, so I'm confident they're all above seventy-five."

No sense in arguing, so the boy turned and realized his helper had already shown herself out. For a moment his body opted to run after her but his mind stopped everything, questioning why he'd ever want to do that. He saunters out of the room, walking with fists in his jacket and a tough shell tightly wrapped around him, like always. As he left the room and walked around a corner, he didn't find any of his friends waiting for him. Part of him knew they wouldn't wait up, but he wanted to hope...

 _Peaches_. That's what it was. _Peaches and cream_ is what was coming off of her. As Butch made a side-ways glance into the clinic as he walked by the windows, he vaguely wondered if it was her shampoo, or her body wash that made her smell that way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note,** I had a busy last week. Has it been a week? It feels like a month. I moved since I last updated the story. Believe it or not, I don't have internet, or even so much as a bar for cell service. Don't really know when I'll get an ISP, considering my last one was terrible to begin with. Irrelevant side note, don't ever sign up for internet through Hugh's net. Comcast is also evil.

Back to what I was saying, I don't have the ability to write back at a moment's notice, but I do want to say thank you to those of you following and reviewing the story. You really don't know what it means to me. There are things that weigh on me from time to time and it's not easy getting back into the writing habit, but when I feel short of inspiration, I can find fuel-up by reading your messages and reviews. That's all I wanted to say. Here's another helping of your favorite Helga Pataki of the Fallout universe.

 _Another_ irrelevant side note, I'm working on a Dragon Age fanfic on the side featuring a female Lavellan. I don't know who specifically I should pair her with, but I am considering and encouraging suggestions. Special thank you to SpringTime for her review, I'm really glad you're enjoying the story so far. Thanks everyone, and have a good week.

 **Break.**

How many hours has she spent staring at this ceiling?

There's no telling how long she's spent staring, pondering what would happen when she got up from bed to attend class, or settling down after a long day. Most of the time, though, when she wasn't dreading due dates or relaxing at the end of her day, she tried to paint a landscape in her mind of what the outside looks like today. Or, alternatively, what the world looked like before the bombs fell.

Blue skies, green grass, warm sun. While Zoey is very imaginative and inventive, she hasn't been able to imagine much else beyond that. A wide canvas of blue and green, sometimes she'd put a house in the middle of that canvas. Two stores, white window frames, sturdy walls. A place with a tasteful interior, a dog waiting for her in the fenced in yard. Sometimes she could think of more, but would never be sure of the realism. Sunlight? Can sun peek through a window and present it's self like a golden beam? Is that a thing? What did the authors of the books see as they wrote these almost-fantasies?

While she has yet to imagine what a star-lit sky looks like, she has time. Years, decades to imagine what it would be like to see the transition of day, to night, to day again. It's pleasant, knowing that there's time to imagine. At the same time, it hurts to know that she'll only be able to imagine and never experience life outside the Vault.

"I see you're preoccupied." There's some surprise that comes to her face as she sits up to see her dad, and then she relaxes again. This isn't his first time walking in on her during the daydreams. He'd never admit it himself, but he too gives in to daydreams when he's not forced to take the role as doctor.

"No, I'm not. What's up? You need something?" As she shifts to sit with her legs hanging off the side of her bed, taking a glance at her Pipboy to check the time. James shrugged and moseyed on over to her desk to observe the papers, poking through her notebook that she filled mostly with drawings, doodles of questionable variety.

"I thought I got you this so you could take _notes_ with it, not to—... what's this supposed to be?" Suddenly the little redhead darted up and grabbed the flimsy book from his hands, scowling.

"I pass my classes, don't I? Don't worry about what I use it for." Then she closes it, setting it back down on top of her assignments. He thought to lecture her, but he let it go, finding her creative outlet something almost precious and admirable.

"There's talk about a dance," he started, placing his hands in the low pockets of his lab coat, "Thoughts? I know a few of your classmates are getting together to fix up the Atrium."

"I don't care..." There's a subtle saltiness in her reply, and she doesn't opt to explain her dislike for the idea.

"Why not?"

"Because it's stupid," she decisively deflects him.

"I don't know, it sounds like it'd be fun," that's when she shook her head, giving her father a look that could only be described as... disapproving. "I could ask someone to tailor a nice dress for you. I think Beatrice has a few fabrics that she wouldn't mind parting with and—"

"Oh my God, no!" The sudden outburst caught James a bit off guard as his daughter started to go into some kind of dramatic display of refusal.

"No, no, no way, no how," then she turned towards her father, hands on hips to show she means business, "Who would I go to the dance with, huh? What's the point? All the fun is going to be sucked out by the Overseer, the only people who will have fun will be the adults. _Oh, haha, look at my boy dancing with your daughter. How about that?_ Jeeze, like I want to be some kind of dancing monkey for your amusement."

"I think you're taking this a little too seriously. Sweetheart, I wouldn't make you go just so I could have a cheap laugh. No one's that cruel—"

"And what if _someone_ ruins everything? They show up and stain my dress or lights someone's pants on fire or—"

"Butch will be there, yes, but keep in mind that it's his mother who will be there and he wouldn't do anything terrible while dear old mom is watching him."

"Oh, yeah! Like that's supposed to be reassuring." Suddenly she flopped back down on her bed and straightened. Face buried into a pillow, spine stiff and straight. She did her best impression of a plank as her father looked on, trying not to seem so amused by her antics. He stepped back, leaving the threshold of the door and spoke from the living room.

"I'm going to talk to Beatrice about making you a dress. If you decide to attend, it will be here. If not..." There was no alternative. James wasn't going to punish her for not going, but to be frank he didn't know what she'd do instead. All the people in her age-range would be attending and she'll be the only one staring at the ceiling in bed that night. She'll go, if only to be with Amata and make fun of the others, no doubt.

Daddy's little girl didn't reply, she just lingered on the bed as he bid her goodnight, and listened as the door closed. As soon as it shut, she shifted and returned to the regular position. On her back, she stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine something more glamorous and elegant than a dance in the Vault's atrium. It's difficult to do, as she has limited references to the interior layouts of mansions and fancy buildings. Only what she has read in books, and the book selection in the Vault is very finite.

Zoey closes her eyes and tries to picture a large room with a cold floor made out of something that wasn't metal. White granite maybe? Dark walls of glossy, polished wood... A grand staircase that takes hours to wash from top to bottom. Filling that large room would be dapper looking men in suits and ties, effortlessly "debonair". The women would be more self-possessed and stylish that their masculine opposites, wearing dresses so soft and tasteful. What would Zoey wear?

Maybe something bright, something to stick out so that the others would look boring in comparison. Loud, but not obnoxious and ridiculous. The sea of people would be quietly chatting, discussing... whatever it is that elegant people talk about. There would be music, slow and soft, and dancing. The type of dancing that only people in love would do. Gazing amorously into one another's eyes and some how exchanging sweet-nothings without saying a word. Glances and lingering gazes would speak enough for the paramours in love.

There would be fancy meals that she doesn't know how to pronounce because she's never dared speak silly words like _escargot_ or _paté maison_ for fear of pronouncing foreign words like a gawkish barbarian. They would drink the best wines, aged centuries ago, and by the end of the night everyone would return to where they came from and she would be in the arms of someone who loved her, and not strictly in a platonic way.

 **Break.**

This isn't what she had in mind.

A look was passed over the small little gathering, a collection of youthful faces looking either nervous, or entirely too arrogant. Never mind the fact that some of the girls didn't fill out their dresses, or the fact that the boy's faces were littered with a minefield of acne caused by the stress of the event it's self.

After hearing how long and how much effort Beatrice put into making the dress for her, Zoey was guilted into wearing it. It feels ridiculous. A little tight around her stomach, a sash of red hugging her tummy for what allure Beatrice thought that would bring. Admittedly, Zoey's dress is the only unique one being worn, as all other girls were wearing something that had been preserved since before the bombs fell. The same thing in regards to the boy's and their suits. Despite their nervousness, their fumbling, she can admit that they look a bit more pleasing to the eye when they wore those starchy-stiff suits, worn by their fathers, and their father's fathers, and so on.

Glancing up, she duly noted the two guards that stood watch upon the second floor, as if the Vault needed more surveillance over it's rowdy teenagers. There were two more guards stationed at the first floor, opposite corners of each other, just so they can keep an eye on all who are exiting and leaving. Most likely so a boy doesn't leave with a girl and go off to some place quiet and secluded.

"There's Freddie," whispered a girl to her right. Amata, she's wearing a pink pre-war dress. It looks good on her, but there's this awful hunching thing her friend has going on. It's not that noticeable, but her upper back is curved slightly. It's from all those days of sitting in class with bad posture.

"He looks like such a goofball," Zoey commented, consciously straightening her spine and pulling her shoulders back for fear of having the same hunch appearance. "Did he come with anyone?" Zoey felt that she had to ask, because while she didn't tell anyone, she'd been asked. By Wally the Tunnel Snake goon, of all people.

"No, I don't think anyone has arrived with a date." Amata doesn't seem quite as bored as her friend, but for some reason Zoey is not the least bit impressed with this turn of events. This is way more different than her fantasy. What the hell is she supposed to do? And where are all the parents that are supposed to be watching and bragging about their sons and daughters? She was so sure that her dad would be here. It doesn't make sense why no parental figure wouldn't be, save for Mrs. DeLoria. She's probably too loaded to figure out which way is up.

"I want to go," she muttered, looking towards Amata with a sad, sunken look.

"What? Why? You just got here," Amata asked as she reached and gently took Zoey's hand. She begins gently rubbing over the girl's scarred knuckles with a thumb, a comforting gesture but it doesn't give any comfort here.

"I just want to leave..."

A nervous feeling in her stomach votes in favor for leaving, but Amata is here and she'd hate to leave her friend to mingle among the asinine and boring. Squeezing Amata's hand for a few moments, she looks upward to stare at the circular window that the Overseer so-often peers through, but even Amata's father isn't watching the dance. A door opens on their level and the two girls release hands.

It's Wally Mack, and he looked particularly indifferent, as always. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't hideous, either. The suit was put together and he seemed like he didn't really want to be here. Whether that's because Zoey said no, or because he just didn't want to be caught dead at the dance, it's impossible to say. Either way, she didn't tell anyone he asked. Not even Amata. Although now, seeing as how painfully boring this whole event was turning out to be, Zoey was feeling compelled to talk about it. What a predicament. Talk about it, and let people buzz with speculation between herself and Wally, or keep it to herself and be bored to tears all evening.

"And there's Wally—"

"Uggghh, please tell me they're not going to force us to stay for the rest of the night," Zoey whined, having half a mind to ditch. Amata gave a playful nudge.

"Hey, we just got here. I know you, I know you _think_ you're too cool for stuff like this, but we're never going to get to do something like this ever again. So suck it up."

True enough, Amata had a point, and though Zoey _felt_ uncomfortable and uneasy, everyone else didn't particularly mind in the least. She and Wally locked eyes for a moment, and to her surprise she watched as they rolled down her dress. Now, Zoey isn't a stranger to teenage perversion... but she's not really that smart when it comes to sexual suggestion.

But that look alone was enough to make her realize what Wally saw in her... and now he's giving Amata a once over. Zoey looked towards Amata, who hadn't been paying attention, apparently. Honest to God, she truly didn't know how to feel about that subtle display... but she doesn't need to give Wally a look from head to toe to decide if he's attractive or not.

Because she's not interested, nor has she ever been, nor will she ever be.

There was only one person who wasn't here, and though no one seemed to notice, Zoey did. She noticed, and knowing he wasn't here to make fun of her gave her relief. She relaxed, despite her better judgement, and watched as the more confident and shameless girls pulled the more shy, hesitant boys towards the center of the atrium, and steadily the lights became a little bit dimmer. Only, not too dim. The security guards needed to keep a look out, to be vigilant so that the more hungry, sultry teenagers won't run off and figure out how their bodies work together.

The more timid boys stayed standing at their respective walls, shooting the shit while they tried to pretend that there wasn't a bunch of girls on the opposite wall on the atrium. It was relatively quiet, for the most part. Even when Butch was swiftly and finally kicked into the atrium by force, it was quiet and almost entirely unnoticed.

Almost.

Although he would be the last person she'd grant attention to, although she'd never want to be caught noticing him develop into existence, she spotted him when a guard opened a door and dragged him in by the back of his collar, like he was some kind of lousy mutt. He quickly recovered, collected himself, fixed his collar and then tried to fix his messy hair. He looked a bit roughed up. No doubt he got in trouble for trying to skip out on the mandatory dance, and while she wished him all the rotten luck in the world, she didn't understand. What's the point in kicking his ass for not showing up to a _dance_?

"Ooh, look. Your best friend decided to show up," Amata murmured quietly, looking at her redheaded compadre with a grin only to get a spiteful scowl in return.

"Shut up," Zoey almost hissed, looking away as she distracted herself with the upbeat jingles and tunes that was produced from the speakers. Surely, the two wouldn't cross paths on the dance floor. He's already headed towards his pals, no doubt to talk about how lame this whole shindig is. Butch isn't dressed in a handsome suit and he's still with the mind of a gynophobic five year old. He'll stay clear of the girl's side of the atrium, because that's just the kind of coward he'll always be.

Wally Mack, on the other hand.

"What's up, skirts?" The gravity of his presence is unknown to him, but for a guy to approach the girl's side of the atrium? So scandalous. Almost brave. Though, he's acting entirely with his head in mind. No, not the head on his shoulders. _The other head._

Zoey wasn't quite sure what to think, but before she can let him play the part of the charming smooth-talker, she spoke without thinking.

"You look lost," she responded dryly, "Do you know where you are?"

"Yeah, I do. Do you know who you're talking to?"

"Yeah, some yuppie in a stiff suit," she smirked towards Amata, exchanging bemused glances between one another.

"Whatever, look. I came to ask—"

"No way, José," Zoey interrupted, and then Wally managed a small grin.

"I came to ask _Amata_ if she'd like to dance."

Oh... _Oh._ Zoey stood, mostly dumbfounded by the abrupt change in direction. She was hesitant to make eye contact with Amata, who was probably more susceptible to Wally's ways anyhow. _Oh, oh oh oh_... Oh. He offered his hand and Amata actually hesitated, as if she was thinking about taking him up on the offer. It's a trick, right? A gag? Just a few days ago, Wall, Butch, and Paul were making fun of her and calling her fat. What happened between then and now that made it okay for her to even _consider—_

Amata left her friend behind, glancing back towards Zoey with a sorry smile. A blank look fell over Zoey's face as she watched the two wander off towards the center of the atrium. They moved a little awkwardly at first, but they began to coordinate something together. It actually looked like fun, too. Wally's courageous attempt to ask a girl to dance prompted some other boys to ask when they saw how successful he was.

Zoey remained on the sidelines, unknowingly intimidating every boy with her resting-bitch-face. That's okay, though. She didn't want to dance. Last thing she'd ever want to do is dance with the rest of the morons.

Thirty minutes pass, and Zoey is alone. No one asked her to dance. There is another girl who hasn't been asked yet, but she probably wasn't asked because she has severe halitosis. Realizing this is suddenly putting a lot of things into perspective, raised a lot of questions. Questions like... _Is this where I rank?_ Her eyes remained glued to the collection of dancing teenagers, and she questioned her recent decisions in regards to the dance, being asked to dance, and a variety of other things.

The only boy who isn't dancing is Butch. The two are so intent on not looking towards one another, though. She refuses to acknowledge she was a _bottom-feeder_ like that heinous-anus-hole. On another note, Zoey is very colorful with her insults tonight. Though she would protest it, she made a sideways glance towards Butch. He was distracted by the bash, disappointed in his friends who abandoned him for dames. A feeling she can understand, but she wasn't going to stay here and be forced to watch everyone else have fun.

So she walked to a guard, acted on impulse, and with her best liar's face—

"There are two kids fucking in the middle of the group."

He stared at her, hesitant to respond. Did he hear her right?

"There are two kids, a boy and a girl, fucking in the middle of the dance floor!"

He gawks.

"Well?!" Her shrill voice made him flinch, and then suddenly he bolted towards the gathering, elbowing his way in to find these rowdy teenagers and separate them. While he was distracted, she activated the door and walked through, not even considering the consequences of her actions and lies for a second. Neither did Butch when he bolted through the door and closed it behind him.

" _Finally!_ " A sense of helplessness washed over her as she realized who had followed after her, and how it would look if they both got caught outside of the atrium, unsupervised no less.

"Oh God," she whispered as she kept walking, heels clicking as she sought to put distance between herself and the greasy boy behind her. She couldn't believe her luck. Of all the people who she would've liked to ditch the dance with, it had to be him. Hopefully she'll get rid of him before he can get her into trouble.

"Hey, _Red_. Where you goin' in such a rush, huh?" A sudden flood of hot, sticky hate boiled in her stomach as she walked faster, sacrificing her graceful stride so that she could run away from him. He easily kept up. Though he could stroll beside her, he chose to keep behind her heels, comment on her femininity like it was a joke.

"You look way too dolled up," he would say as she made an exhausted groan, stomping down a set of stairs towards the lower, unoccupied levels. Where she was going, he's never been before.

"Fuck off," she muttered, opening a door and quickly closing it, only to have Butch deftly walk behind her before it shut closed.

"Hey, quit being so evil." His words are... uncharacteristic. So much so that he has to be pulling her leg, teasing her. After all, the only thing he's interested in is getting a rise out of people, making them miserable. She'd tell him to fuck off, but she doesn't for fear of sounding like a broken record.

"Where the hell are you going anyway?"

"I'm going to get my gun, and I'm going to shoot you," she said. His steps went silent, deadpan expression washing over his face. She didn't need to look over her shoulder, she knew exactly what he was thinking, what he looked like at this very second. If only her possible threat was enough to scare the idiot away. A feeling of spite and fury came over her as his steps picked up again and his voice pricked her ears.

"You have a gun? No you don't, you liar," he said, stirring up something childish in her. All of a sudden, they're both five years old and are pining to upset the other.

"Do too."

"Nuhuh, you big fat liar."

"Oh! Ohh, you're going to get it!" she'd say, raising her voice as she came to the final step and darted. Butch was smiling, like the moron that he is, and it just burned her up in the worst way.

Zoey pushed a metal crate to a corner of the room, stepped up and reached up. Her hand blindly searched on top of the pipes, and while she felt around for the bb gun, he stared thoughtlessly at the figure in front of her. The red waist in front of him was small, thoughtlessly observing the curves she was cursed with... Particularly, he was distracted by the back view, that when she finally stepped down with what he assumed was a rifle, he didn't notice.

"... Oh," he started, stepping back as he realized she was aiming it at him, "H-hey, come on. Quit screwing around... You could put someone's eye out with that."

"Yeah, _your_ eye," she whispered, pressing the butt of the rifle against her shoulder and aiming with her dominant eye. He raised both hands, paling at the idea that she might actually do it. Butch was suddenly tripping over words, trying to think of some special combination of words that would save his life, because he completely believed she would shoot him without any fear for consequences afterwards. What happened next certainly wasn't thought out completely.

"You wouldn't."

"Would I?"

"... Come on, Nosebleed," he whispered, as if such a nickname could ever be affectionate. The hammer was pulled and he started to sweat.

"I want you on your knees," she commanded with a voice stronger than his, husky almost.

Silence intensified in the depths of the Vault and his stomach twisted with traces of fear. Settling down, he shifted slowly to his knees. The transition was seamless, from the helpless victim to the empowered dictator. Butch's sweat was beginning to collect on his skin and he looked towards her modest shoes with a creased brow.

"Hey, you know... I never meant any of that junk. I mean, I don't think you're really a dork—"

"Shut up, give me your switchblade," her commands were easily followed, and he reached into his jacket, pulling a blade out from his inside pocket and tossing it, watching it slide across the floor. It felt like a piece of him went missing. She graciously bent down and collected it, tucking it between her breasts. That... made him wonder about what else she smuggles in her charlies.

"I think you look really pretty," he mumbled, thoughtlessly. The words were without thought. He would've sounded better with his foot in his mouth. Poor bastard could stand to read a dictionary and broaden his vocabulary. She didn't believe him, although Zoey didn't mind a bit of praise from the man that terrorized her for as long as she can remember.

"Keep going," she goaded, trying to coax more out of him.

"... You're really pretty," as if saying it a second time was better than the first time. She rolled her eyes, and glared down at him, expecting more. He complied, "I think you're cute, and... uhh... squishy."

"Squishy? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Soft! I mean soft—"

"You think I'm fat?"

"No! I didn't say that!"

"You think I'm _squishy?!_ " Her face looks warm, and he looked clammy, sweat threatening to pour through his leather jacket, as if that was possible.

"Uh, su—su, soft! Squishy—whatever! It's the same! I mean, what I meant to say was... supple...?" His ears were steadily burning, panic was flooding him. "... shit, I don't know!" Now she contemplated, having half a mind to make him say an assortment of embarrassing things. So she took advantage of what felt like a rare opportunity.

"Say, Tunnel Snakes suck."

"What?! Hey, screw that noise! I'm—"

"Say it or I'll paint the walls with your brains!" Suddenly he shifted, beginning to freak out over the possibility that he won't live long enough to know what a blow job feels like. He's still a virgin! When did Red become such a fucking psychopath?

"Say it, Butch."

"Tunnel Snakes suck..." he murmurs quietly, but loud enjoy for her to hear. Satisfying. Now for the ultimate reveal.

"You're such a gullible idiot... It's a bb gun, Butch," she pointed the gun downward and smirked, looking down at the boy who was almost in tears. She would've kept going, but she wasn't as sadistic as he was. He lifted his eyes from her girly heels to her face, coming to realize the little ruse. "How's it feel? Being terrorized?"

"What?" He came to his feet, full of fire. "What?!" Then he balled up his fists, approaching her with more haste than she expected. She raised her gun, shaking.

"You little bitch." His voice was quiet but still full of spite, fire, anger. He put his hands on her in anger, gripping the long barrel and tearing it away as his free hand squeezed her arm.

"Stop," she ordered, twisting and squirming as he pushed her back. She stumbles, but he sees to it that she doesn't fall, pulling her and pushing her. The bb gun is tossed to the floor and she's pushed to a wall. Both wrists are held tight, too tight. "Stop it, you're hurting me..."

"You know what?! I could snap you like a twig!" He flattens her, and she's as soft as she looks, more so. She squirms her legs, her arms, but there's not a whole lot of movement, it feels like she's stuck between two walls. He doesn't budge, he just moved. "I _should_. I should break you in half. You know how easy it would be?"

His hand wraps around her throat, he doesn't squeeze tight but he holds firm and her eyes widen. He can almost see himself in her eyes, see the fear he stoked inside of her. Suddenly Butch is stalling, and between hurried breaths he picks up the smell of her shampoo. Gone were the feelings of vexation. Sickness filled his stomach as he looked at the little mirrors inside of her skull. He didn't feel well. Usually teasing and torturing her made him feel centered and jovial.

Doing this just makes him feel like heaving.

"... Don't fucking do that again," he murmured, jerking his hand away like her neck was a hot stove plate, "And don't look at me like that." He stepped back, clenching his jaw. She stared at him, like some creature trapped in bright high beams or something, eyes doe-like. Sadly he doesn't know what a doe is.

"Give me my pocket knife back..." He held his hand out, looking at her expectantly.

Silent staring continues.

"... Give it back or I'm going to reach in there and take it!"

Suddenly she ruffled, her cheeks and ears reddening as she reached into the front of her dress and pulled the favored blade that Butch affectionately referred to as his toothpick. She held it out, and he gingerly tried plucking it from her fingers. Instead, she held onto it tighter. The two glared at one another, a feverish hate fueling them.

"Let go... Come on, let go of it," he grumbled, and they tested one another's strength... before suddenly she jerked forward and Butch leaned back, pressing his palm to his forehead. "Ff _fffuck!_ " He stepped back more and more, groaning as he held back his fits of rage in order to calm the throbbing pain at his forehead. She was grinning despite the pain she received from headbutting him, but she didn't plan on leaning against the wall and bending over in the splitting sensation. Damn, his skull is thick. The pain lasted longer than the reward and satisfaction of indisposing her bully, but she wasn't going to linger and recover with him.

"You're a fucking prick," she murmured as she picked her bb gun off the floor and swiftly brought the butt of it to his backside, electing a pained grunt from the boy. Zoey started off, tossing his toy-knife near him and then pulled her heels off so that she could run off stealthily and quickly.

While the evening didn't go as planned, she was relieved to put distance between herself and her rival. She tucked her bb gun on top of a set of pipes in a room not far from her firing range, and darted for home base. Up a set of stairs, down another set of stairs, she went by DeLoria's residence, past the boy's and girl's restrooms that separated her home from Butch's. Just as she entered the threshold, and tossed her heels to the side of the door, she met with a face more rigid and disapproving than anything she'd ever seen.

"... Dad," she mumbled, and before he could utter a word, she felt a hot wave of ominous sickness come over her. The kind she used to get when she was under the double-digit years and he threatened to spank her for doing something terrible. She knows she's in trouble, he doesn't have to threaten her with discipline. Just looking at her like that, right now, it's enough to make her want to curl up and die.

"Where did you go?"

"I... I just went down to the lower levels."

"You left the dance," he stated, "and you promised you wouldn't get into trouble."

"I didn't!"

"You don't have the slightest—... You don't have the faintest idea of what you've set in motion," his disapproval shifted subtle into despair. An oblivious look melts over her. What is he talking about? "... You should've stayed."

"Why? It's just a dance, dad." For some reason, her words cause him to shake his head. He shifts in his recliner, holding the glass of scotch in hand so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He seems pale. In all her life, she's never seen him like this. Worry lines his face, particularly on his forehead and around his eyes as he pulls the glass towards his lips and sips in the oaky char-taste of aged scotch. James rests the glass on his stomach, sighing quietly as he sinks his cushions.

"You've set something in motion and now..." he trails off, he doesn't tell her anything more. Instead he chooses to lean back, settle in the valley where despondency and defeat meet in the center. Zoey feels a weight growing in her stomach, the kind of weight one only feels when the world is about to end. Alarms go off in her mind, but she doesn't know what to be concerned about, or why she should worry.

"... Go to bed, sweetheart," He waves her off, dismissing her with a gesture. "Nothing can be done about it now." Perhaps he can talk to someone about this, gather favors or collect dirt, do dirty work. Something has to be done.

"... What? What're you talking about?"

"Go," he murmurs, tilting his head, his free hand raised, fingers pressing his temple, "Go to bed, we'll... discuss it another time."


End file.
